The Things You Said Would Break Me
by asylumsession
Summary: In which Prussia realizes the future isn't so bleak after all.


**_Kinda short, Hetalia kink meme prompt for mieudiary on tumblr. Link to the prompt is in my profile. EngPru/PrUK, swings wildly between using country and human names, honestly just a bunch of small scenes strung together, Gilbert is a sad drunk. Pardon me. I was kinda vague on what Russia did, I think, but that was mostly because I couldn't decide. Idek, probably OOC children. I apologize._**

* * *

England is watching him again.

Prussia plays oblivious because he knows the green eyed Englishman will look away the moment Gilbert looks up. He always does; this isn't an uncommon occurrence. So he keeps spinning his pen cap, head resting on the table and gaze subtly staring past the black top to the blond man beyond.

Prussia doesn't particularly like coming to world meetings. Ludwig handles everything that goes on in their ( _not yours,_ a little voice tells him; Gilbert pushes it away) country, so Prussia is usually just there for the ride and the bar hopping afterwards. Francis and Antonio won't join him; they'll be busy as usual ( _no time for him)_ with their papers and their countries.

Someone else is talking. He wonders when America stopped or, rather, was forced to stop. They're refuting the North American country, but it's not the person that puts Prussia on edge and makes him shrink back in his seat like some weak man.

He's brooding again and he hates it. Prussia knows the longer he holds onto this the worse it will get, but he just can't bring himself to let it go. It keeps him grounded, somehow, keeps him looking over his shoulder and tensing at sudden movements. It's the same thing that makes Prussia despise the cold and curse his pride and falter when he glimpses beige coats or tall, blond men.

( _Awesome?_ It's that voice again, and this time there's no mistaking it. That voice is his own; a voice he is so sick of hearing. It cackles. _Yeah, right!)_

His pen cap clatters to the linoleum floor.

Gilbert pretends not to notice.

–

"Prussia."

"England."

"You're off to the pub, aren't you?"

"What of it?"

"Mind if I tag along?"

"I-"

"I'll pay."

Prussia only briefly hesitates, "Your wallet, man."

–

Somehow, Prussia comes to enjoy England's company. He sees England roll his eyes in exasperation as America brings up yet another superhero to solve some world problem. Prussia's just there for the ride and the beer again, though he's quite enjoying England's reactions to others as of late. Besides that, sometimes the Englishman will offer to pay again and they'll both go out and get smashed. England is rather amusing when he's drunk – Gilbert himself is typically a blackout drunk; he seldom knows what the hell he does when he's drunk off his ass.

He regrets it sometimes.

Currently, he's found a way to entertain himself (or really, he supposes, it's a matter of irritating a certain musician more than a matter of entertaining himself) by making annoying faces at Austria while the German country is trying to speak. Austria's noticed him, no doubt about it, because he's growing increasingly more agitated and his gaze keeps flickering to Prussia.

(In retrospect, Prussia supposes he should have expected Austria to hunt him down later and give him a long lecture. Gilbert ends up tuning most of it out, of course, because he very seldom listens.)

Then he hears it – a little snort. His twisted expression immediately fades and his eyes dart to find the source. At the same time, emerald eyes flicker away. He's hiding it, but Prussia has no doubt; that sound had been England. The blond is trying to suppress an amused curl of his lips, but he isn't doing a very good job at it and Prussia recognizes that little lift in his eyebrows that shows he's entertained.

Austria finishes speaking and Prussia loses his chance to hear it again.

–

"Go on ahead, I'll catch up," England tells him.

He's talking to America. Prussia greets the North American nation amiably and, per England's request, goes on to head to the nearby bar.

( _He's not going to show,_ that little voice is pestering him again, _it was just an excuse._ Gilbert is finding it harder and harder to ignore.)

He takes his time gathering his things (and really, this is his first mistake – he's almost the last to leave, but someone is watching him and he does not realize it), though there isn't much to grab. Prussia slides on his jacket and spares one last glance in the direction of England and America before he exits the meeting room and starts down the hall. He's nearly to the stairs when he hears footsteps behind him.

"Prussia?"

He resists the urge to flinch at the heavily accented voice, lifts his chin, and keeps walking. It's only a matter of time before the much taller man catches up, Prussia knows it, but that doesn't mean he can't ignore him while the chance is presented. He takes the first flight of stairs two at a time.

"Prussia!"

He won't answer. He doesn't answer to that man anymore and he never will again. They're alone in the hall and panic briefly swells in his chest ( _it hurts, it hurts, it hurts),_ but he forces himself to keep moving, a constant chant of right foot, left foot, right foot, left. A hand closes around his wrist.

" _Gilbert!_ "

Suddenly, he remembers why he hates the snow. Prussia spins around and rips his arm from Russia's grip, staring up at the very man that still haunts his nightmares. Russia is two steps up and appears taller than usual because of this, but everything in Gilbert is screaming and red floods the edges of his vision.

"Don't call me that," he whispers, and his voice betrays him with a crack, "you don't have the right."

"I wanted to apologize," Russia tells him, "for everything."

The sincerity in his voice terrifies Gilbert. He runs.

–

"I'm so weak," Gilbert hiccups.

He's lost track of his drinks and he's not entirely aware what he's saying. He's not going to remember this in the morning, that's a given. England's looking mournfully at his wallet, but he lifts his eyes when Prussia speaks.

"Weak?" England echoes, scoffing. "Please, you're one of the strongest people I know."

"No 'm not," he mutters, accent growing increasingly thicker, "I can't even get over my fear of stupid Russia."

"Russia?" England echoes; his eyebrows pinch together slightly and Prussia's gaze is drawn to the subtle movement.

"Don't," he slams his drink abruptly on the bar and England jumps, "don't talk 'bout 'im! Bastard thinks a-apologizing 'ill help. But it _won't,_ 'cause I'm not stu-upid."

"You aren't making any sense," England tries, reaching out to touch Prussia's shoulder. "What did Russia do? What did he apologize for?"

Gilbert flinches away from the touch, and England withdraws his hand sharply. He downs the rest of his drink without another word and then slumps forward in his chair.

"I hate the cold."

It's the most sober sentence that's come from his mouth in the past few minutes. England looks beyond lost, green eyes wide and withdrawn hand close to his chest.

"Are you quite alright, Gilbert?"

Prussia wonders when England started calling him by his given name and not _Prussia._

"I'm just so tired," he whispers, and he really, really is.

–

Prussia isn't entirely sure why England gives him odd looks the next few times they see each other. He has a bad feeling it has something to do with the night at the bar after Russia had apologized – Gilbert can't remember anything past his first few drinks. It unnerves him; had he said something bad or private?

( _You messed up big, this time!_ Prussia's nearly inclined to believe it.)

Prussia just wishes he could remember what the hell he said at the bar that night.

–

The bar is louder than usual this time. Prussia barely pauses to wonder if it's a special occasion. England looks half annoyed and half conflicted, as though he doesn't want to be here, but something else is keeping him seated. The Englishman is staring at his mostly full drink as though it's the next famous philosopher. Gilbert, though, is just staring at England, watching the way his expression contorts at odd comments nearby or grimaces and shifts when another body slides into the barstool beside his.

"Are we friends?" Prussia, in his half drunken stupor, blurts before he can stop it.

"What?" England looks up from his awfully interesting drink, eyebrows pinched inwards in a faint sort of confusion. "I- I mean, do you want to be?"

"I don't know," says Prussia, even though he does.

He watches as England's reflection distorts in the half empty glass that Prussia is watching him through. "I think so. Yeah. I mean..." Gilbert tries to continue, but he can't collect his thoughts; they're just vague ideas that are sort of bouncing about in his spinning head and so instead, he just repeats himself and mumbles, "Yeah."

The glass is always half empty to him, even looking at it from different angles.

"Then yes," England downs the rest of his whiskey and seems to sway a bit, "I suppose we are."

"Okay," Prussia just accepts this and rests his cheek against the cold bar. "Hey, England?"

"Arthur," the blond interrupts, "it's Arthur."

"Arthur," Gilbert repeats, and almost smiles, "thank you."

–

"Can we talk?"

"I don't know, can we?"

"Arthur, please."

Something in Gilbert's voice makes England look up.

–

Prussia promptly throws himself on England's bed upon entering the blond's hotel room. Arthur makes a distinctive huffing sound and Gilbert can just imagine the scowl.

"Bloody git. Don't go around stealing people's beds," Arthur grumbles, but pulls up the desk chair anyways.

Prussia shifts to lay on his back. He feels as though he's in therapy, though he's only ever seen it in the movies. Suddenly, the ceiling seems rather interesting and Prussia's eyes scan the starch white surface.

"Is this about Russia?" England's the one to break the silence.

Prussia's heart leaps into his throat, and he sits up. "How did you know about Russia?"

"You told me."

"I never-"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Gilbert," he sighs, "you told me in the pub. You were rat-arsed."

"Oh, man," Prussia slowly lays back again and slings his arm over his face.

He has an option, he knows. He can go through with this – steel his resolve and spill everything – or he can change his mind, and leave, knowing England will be none the wiser. Gilbert inhales.

( _Coward.)_

"It starts, I suppose, when Russia took over my land."

And he confides in England the secrets that have been suffocating him for years.

–

It's funny, one thinks, how light telling one little secret can make you. Prussia knows the feeling. After years upon years of being strangled and suffocated and haunted by his fears, he's finally confided in someone and told them. He feels weightless as of late, like his grin isn't so fake. Nightmares are rarer; he knows he won't quite forgive Russia for a long time, if ever, but he's determined to try to make steps towards it.

It was England's suggestion, and really, that's the only reason Prussia considers it.

Said Englishman jostles him, face red with heavy intoxication, and Prussia looks up from his half full cup of beer.

"Don't go off into dreamland y-you," the blond hiccups and half slumps against the bar countertop, "git, I was _talking._ "

And suddenly, Gilbert can see a little light at the end of his long, dark path.


End file.
